


Bad Timing

by comete



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: AKA they curse, Angst, Deacon doesnt know how to talk to people, Deacon fucks up, No Romance, Quinn the Ghoul, Rated M for language, actually kinda the opposite, and sole is pissed, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22823338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comete/pseuds/comete
Summary: Deacon is awful at not crossing boundaries.
Relationships: Deacon/Male Sole Survivor
Kudos: 22





	Bad Timing

Deacon was trying to casually work the false intel into the lack of conversation between him and Quinn, but bringing up that he was a synth wasn’t your typical dinner time conversation. He’d been traveling with Quinn the Ghoul for some time now, respecting the guy’s boundaries and only following as a companion when asked. Quinn often-times was busy attending to the neverending list of helpless settlers that needed a prince to come to save them but still made an honest effort to devote at least a day or two a week to the Railroad. It was touching how much the man cared for everyone else but himself, a trait that Deacon worried would get him in trouble someday if it hadn’t already. Trouble, as in killed or worse. The Commonwealth didn’t lack in creative ways to murder someone, a few methods of which even impressed Deacon.

The pair sat across from each other in a worn red cushioned booth inside a Red Rocket, sharing what supplies they had on the tabletop in front of them. It was starting to turn cold, a bitter winter approaching quicker than anyone had noticed. One man on either side of the table, Quinn kept his head down and wig tilted to almost cover his eyes as he ate quietly. Deacon wasn’t much in the mood for over-salted room temperature Cram and dirty water, opting to rather fiddle with the slab of “meat” with his plastic spork. Neither of them spoke a word, which caused Deacon’s nerves to rest somewhere between “uncomfortable” and “uneasy.” This had also been the case the last day or so they had been traveling together.

Deacon hadn’t done anything wrong, no, he was pretty positive of that. He had traveled briefly with Quinn previously (alongside countless hours of spying on the ghoul on his own terms) and it was clear that the other didn’t much care for a conversation with anyone he hadn’t grown close to. Quinn could talk to Codsworth for a day straight without taking a breath, sure, but he could barely even ask Deacon to carry some extra provisions or change weapon tactics without mumbling. 

Whether it was due to shyness, pride, or trauma, the man was hardheaded to the point it made Deacon slightly annoyed at times. Quinn had lost close to nearly 75% of his vision due to being a ghoul, immense radiation almost hallowing his irises out to a completely pale blue-white hue, which potentially made doing even the simplest of task a challenge. Deacon had seen Quinn more than a handful of times stumble into an object that was on the ground or panic while being shot at because he couldn’t see his enemy that was perched peacefully in a sniper’s nest. Repeatedly in the short time that they had traveled Deacon had offered up his assistance, encouraging the ghoul to accept his help and allow Deacon to show him a few tricks to better orientate himself for in the future.

Each time, though, Quinn mumbled quietly and would decline the help. He would say something along the lines of, “No, no, I’m fine,” and would continue about the task he was trying to complete without a second thought. It drove Deacon insane, but he also weirdly related to the circumstances? Deacon was also a person who didn’t like to admit when he needed help. The difference, though, was that he would accept help from time to time and overcome his pride. Quinn seemed to never take a helping hand even when his life literally depended on it.

Deacon sighed loudly, crossing his arms and sitting back in the torn cushioned booth and watching out the opened half wall of the Red Rocket from inside. He opted to sit on the side of the table that faced the Commonwealth, seeing an unneeded risk to allow Quinn to be their lookout. The ghoul sat with his back to the world, tearing apart his Cram with his own plastic spork. Well, this was as exciting as watching glowing fungus grow. Deacon was slowly growing irritated with his partner as the few days of them traveling started to wear on him. It was one thing to help the Railroad, which Deacon was always going to be greatly appreciative of, but did Quinn half to be so silent about it? Couldn’t he hold a conversation for more than a few words? It was driving Deacon to madness.

Breaking the silence, Deacon adjusted his posture upright in the booth and crossed his arms. His white torn t-shirt wrinkled under him, black sunglasses tilted downwards as he watched Quinn eat. “So . . . Fighting for the liberation of a bunch of robots, huh? Ever thought you’d be doin’ daring rescues and exciting spy stuff after springing from your icebox? Your life right now totally sounds like a comic special.”

Quinn the Ghoul continued to chew quietly, eyes glued down on his food rather than Deacon. If the intelligence agent hadn’t vouched for him and sang his praises there was little to no doubt that Quinn wouldn’t have even been allowed an inch into the Railroad. He hardly spoke, was almost fully blind, and had the main objective of making a nearly impossible trip to the Institute to save his lost son. Without Deacon in his corner, reassuring an understandably suspicious Dez, there was zero chance the man would’ve become who the agents now knew as one of their best allies.

The ghoul gave a shrug, swallowing down the extremely over-salted dry cram. “I, uh . . . “ Quinn cleared his throat loudly as he spoke, but never once lifted his head. “No. I, um, didn’t think much past getting my son back. I still don’t, but if I can help some people along the way, I will.”

It was an honest answer. Quinn’s mind would always be focused on getting into the Institute and rescuing his boy, but why not cause a revolution and free as many slaves as he could if he was going in there anyway? Two birds, one giant boulder. Deacon nodded at the words, the response being fair enough to his liking. He had previously tried to place himself in the shoes of the ghoul, try to imagine emerging into a world he once knew that was reduced to ashes and monsters. Not only was the life you knew over, but a spouse murdered and son kidnapped. 

Damn. 

Deacon had tried to pick up every small cue that Quinn had done before they first started traveling, get a sense of who he was before they even spoke. Spying on Quinn, overall, was rather boring. He would wander through towns, forests, even the dreaded Boston Commons without ever seeming to have a solid sense of direction. He always made it a point to be kind, sometimes even doing so without a word passed between him and a stranger. Deacon recalled one situation specifically where Quinn had given up almost all of his supplies to a sleeping homeless settler that laid in an abandoned building outside of Diamond City just because they looked like they were starving. It was reckless, risky, and downright naive. 

It tugged on Deacon’s heartstrings.

Quinn sat down his spork after polishing off the rest of the canned Cram. Deacon moved his eyes from observing the taller man to the right of him, watching out the glassless windows while scanning their surroundings. No signs of raiders, settlers, not even a bloatfly looking for his next meal. It was a good place to lay low, the truckstop sitting a half-mile or so from The Slog where Quinn was happily invited to stay whenever he needed to. He had helped those poor saps more times than he could recall, including small unimportant work like getting parts to a Giddyup Buttercup. No matter the task, no matter how insignificant, Quinn framed every job as his most important job. 

Deacon opened his mouth to crack a joke (that would definitely not insight a laugh or any reaction from Quinn) but was cut off when he heard the ghoul knock over the opened container of dirty water that which, of course, promptly spilled on Deacon. “Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Quinn apologized quickly as he reached out and scrambled to grab the container, first his hand hovering way too far to the right before overshooting and grabbing to the left. He finally found the middle ground as he clutched ahold of the plastic container, squeezing it in the victory of being able to use his depth perception. Unfortunately, squeezing? Yeah, that also means more water comes out. 

Quinn yanked away the water container upright, continuing to apologize to a clearly amused Deacon who held out the wet shirt in front of him to get a look at the drenched spots of water. “Sorry, my hands- I wasn’t paying attention. Do you have an extra shirt? I didn’t mean to completely dump-”

Deacon held up his right hand to silence Quinn with a calm smile, left hand holding the wet fabric away from his body. It was an honest mistake from a ghoul that could barely see two feet in front of him. No harm, no foul. “Hey, don’t worry about it, Q. We all make mistakes, right? I mean, everyone but me. I’m pretty perfect in case you hadn’t noticed.”

The joke helped ease Quinn into a small smirk, nodding as he took a deep breath and reassured himself that everything was fine and the man wasn’t inclined to throw a hissy fit. The opportunity arose, Deacon seizing it quickly as he mentally placed the words together before executing the lie into the conversation. “It’s no biggie, pal, really. Now, if you had spilled water on my back? Near the main switchboard? Ooo, yeah, completely different story there.”

Of course, Quinn predictably took the bait. 

“Huh? Your back?”

Quinn moved his head up to meet Deacon despite having peered off anywhere else when he dumped the water. Deacon let go of his wet shirt and ran a few fingers through his black wig, giving an indifferent shrug as he illuminated the false situation. “Well,” he spoke quieter in secrecy, “you see- Well, this place isn’t really even secure. I shouldn’t be saying this here, but . . . “

He scooted closer. Quinn actually scooted closer. Filling the gap between them as Deacon dramatically scanned the area in search of anybody eavesdropping, Quinn whispered back with almost child-like eyes that were set on believing the man without a cause. “No, don’t tell me. You are a synth, aren’t you? No. Really? I suspected so. I totally called it. Ask Codsworth. And you know that you could’ve told me sooner, right? I mean, I already knew. So.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

Deacon was feeling a mix of emotions, but overall he felt pride in his trick having worked on the unsuspecting man. There was always a small amount of joy he got when a lie of his wasn’t caught dead in its tracks, something he planned actually having worked out smoothly. He felt, nervous, however, at the quick trusting nature of Quinn. So what that they had been traveling for a few times now? He barely knew Deacon passed his name and had fallen for a complete identity revelation without a second guess. Trusting the wrong person meant ending up in a caravan ending to New Reno with nothing but your underwear, a slave collar, and a gun pointed at your head. Bad business.

Deacon let out a false relieved breath, crossing his arms once more as he stayed close over the table while they talked in privacy. “Well, yeah, I could have, but I also would’ve been risking that you were actually in bed with the Institute this whole time. I mean, how would that sound? ‘Hey, I know we just met, but I’m an escapee. Please don’t tell your friends? Thanks. Much obliged.’ No, I couldn’t have told you sooner. I know I can trust you now and I’m hoping by letting you in on my dirty little secret, you trust me more, too.”

Quinn eased away from the table at the same time Deacon did too. The ghoul had a small grin on his face, nodding in agreement that Deacon would’ve been at risk if he revealed the information sooner. He knew it! He totally called it! Codsworth owed him one hundred caps now! Yes! 

Having seen Quinn smile and become excited by the lie, Deacon decided to press on to see what more came out of the situation. “Well, feel free to ask me anything, bud. I’m an open book, you know. And by an open book I mean one of those pre-war magazines that you flip sideways and the naked lady folds out. Well, not saying I’m a naked lady- you get what I mean. Ask away.”

A tiny laugh came from the other side of the table as Quinn pondered what to ask first. He had met a few escaped synths, including the Railroad’s Gory-Lovin’-Glory, but had never been traveling companions with a synth besides Valentine. Of course, that he knew of.

Quinn drummed his flaked right digits against the tabletop, thinking of what to ask first. He didn’t know how comfortable the other was about the topic, so decided to ask a baseline question to get the mood set. “Um, well, do you remember much of the Institute? Or did you have a mind wipe?”

Good question, Deacon thought, a nice way to set some ground before working up. “Oh, I remember it alright. Brights lights everywhere,” Deacon raised his hands level as he described the place, palms outwards as he simulated different structures, “several scientists always poking at me, being forced to be a janitor to humans who didn’t give a shit about my own wellbeing. It was hell. I managed to escape down a trash chute, believe it or not. Kinda ironic, huh?”

Quinn was hanging onto every word, no longer caring about finishing his meal and wrapping up. Incredible. A synth who not only escaped but vouched to not have his memory wiped, similar to Glory. Maybe the man also knew information that could help him once he was inside the Insitute for himself? Maybe even provide some knowledge that led him that much closer to Shaun?

The man lowered his hands and took note of Quinn’s enthralled look, a face he saw in children when he would sell them clearly fake stories about his adventures in the Capital Wasteland. It was cute, in a way, but God damn that blind trust of his. 

Quinn asked with an impatient tone, eager to get any tidbit of information that could assist him, “What about the people? Where did the people stay? Were the scientist separated from the rest of the population or were they all merged together?”

That was an odd question. Deacon wasn’t sure why he would instantly jump to the less interesting half of synths and humans, but hey, he had a lie to keep up. “Uh, well, the humans had their own sleeping wing. The place was all theirs. We synths were just living in it as janitors and test subjects. The scientists did their own thing during the day in their labs while the other people, the less important people like kids and average joe’s, trained synths on how to act or kept tabs on the surface by using hidden cameras that they would then watch hours of recorded feed of. I think it might’ve been to document people they would replace. I dunno, why-”

Quinn cut him off by turning away from Deacon and reaching into the tanned leather satchel that he carried with him everywhere, digging into the bottomless pit and searching for a pen. Deacon waited silently as he furrowed his eyebrows, unsure where all this was going. His curiosity was soon alleviated when sat on the table in front of him was a black slim ink pen and a torn piece of notebook paper that soaked up some of the spilled water from the tabletop. “Here. Draw me a map. Shaun is there and he must be staying in the human wing. I’ll go in at night and find him, but I need to know what the layout of the place is before I go in so I’m not wasting time trying to figure it out. Every second counts and all that, you know?”

Oh, shit. Uh-oh.

For once, once in his fucking life, Deacon would like to tell a lie without it getting messy and complicated. Okay, so, maybe telling a grieving parent that he once belonged to the organization that stole his kid wasn’t a great setup to an increasingly growing unfunny life lesson about people. 

Taking the pen in his hand, Deacon pursed his lips as he weighed his options. He could lie some more and continue to lie because obviously he was already going to hell or the other option was to come clean now and take whatever blow Quinn would rightfully give him. Maybe he did go too far on this one. What if codenamed ‘Wanderer’ no longer wanted to travel with him? Or decide that the Railroad was out to toy with him rather than help him rescue his son?

Sighing at the corner he backed himself into, Deacon twirled the pen in his hand while staring down at the soaked paper. It wasn’t until he met eyes with a desperate-looking Quinn that it really sank in with him why this man was so trusting. He had nothing left to hold onto, nothing real, nothing tangible that led to his child. Why wouldn’t he trust strangers? Words with potential leads were the only thing he had left, the only thing that provided an ounce of hope. Why would he question the validity of the conversation, especially with someone who has always vouched for him and encouraged that he was in Quinn’s corner through and through? He had caught Deacon in a few lies before, but nothing major. Small, stupid, white lies. This was different, though.

Quinn shattered whatever amount of heart Deacon had left when he reached out and placed his taught skinned hand on top of Deacon’s left wrist, silently pushing the man to write down the specifics of the Institute blueprints. “Please,” he whispered with a tone of despairing hope, “show me where my son is, Deacon. I need to know. I won’t tell them that you showed me, not even Desdemona. I promise this’ll stay between us.” 

Yup, that did it. A heart? What heart? Oh, the one that was currently in ash and crumbs? Is that the broken heart you are referring to?

Decon couldn’t do it. No way, none. For one, what happens if Quinn actually ever does impossibly get into the Institute and is shot on sight because he has blown his cover by snooping around trying to find a fake wing that Deacon drew for him? And what happens if Quinn shows Glory or any other synth who still has their memories and they have no idea what the fuck he is talking about? It all leads to disaster, so he might as well face the storm now.

“Yeah, I uh . . . “ Deacon’s voice wandered off dryly, Quinn removing his warm hand from the wrist and placing it back into his lap. “I lied,” Deacon pronounced flatly.  
Deacon placed the pen down onto the table, tilting his head down in an act of shame as he nodded in confirmation of his words. Normally he would’ve made a joke at this time, laughed it off and talked about how gullible the other was, but even Deacon had to admit that maybe this wasn’t the right time to be handing out life lessons.

He couldn’t bring himself to look Quinn’s dumbfounded expression, even while hiding behind his oversized sunglasses. It was silent like it had been before, but this was a different kind of silence. It was full of weight and unspoken sorrow. 

Deacon felt like the world’s biggest asshole and rightfully so.

“You . . . lied? Why? Why would you lie to me about this? Why would you lie at all, but especially about this? You know what this means to me.”

Deacon took a moment to seek out the best way to approach this and cover his own hide, but not many solutions were coming up. No matter what he said, he would still be the bad guy. He spoke slow and calm, seeing how Quinn was quickly getting worked up. “Well, I didn’t think that-”

Quinn, to Deacon’s shock, cut him off by slamming his palms flat on the table and knocking back over the now empty container of water. It caught Deacon’s attention, head lifting up at the sudden noise and left-hand instinctively on the handle of his pistol. “You know that this isn’t a joke to me, right,” Quinn spoke quickly and seriously. “This isn’t some fucking game that we play pretend with and at the end of the day I go home and everything is sunshine and rainbows. My son, my boy, is missing because of these secret robot bastards and you want to jerk my chain? To tell me you know all about the Institute? That’s sick. Straight up sick. Who does that? I sh- I can’t believe-”

He was stumbling over his own words now, a fit of anger arising in him that Deacon had never seen before. He had no idea that the shy ghoul even had this side of him. Deacon, clearly, found a major button for Quinn and pressed it. More like, smashed it and then kicked it some more and then curb-stomped it for fun.

Keeping a level head about the problem that he caused, Deacon opted to once more approach the conflict with an even tone. “Quinn, let’s just take a deep breath, okay? I fucked up. Royally. No excuse, that was waaaaaaay too personal on my part. Let’s calm down for a second, though, and get our bearings, alright?”

Quinn didn’t answer. His breathing could be heard between them as his mind raged at the misguided hope he had been handed and then torn away from. Why would he choose this of all things to make him believe? Deacon was a liar, but have he no boundaries? Reaching into his satchel once more, Quinn pulled out an aged corked bottle that contained Bobrov’s Best Moonshine. Opening up the sealed cork with a knife he had unsheathed for a moment, he took a heavy straight swig of the alcohol before pulling it away from his lips and grimacing at the burning in his throat. It was nasty but strong. He needed strong right now. He had, for a moment, pictured rescuing his son from a precise layout that was easy to follow and quick to reach. He had thought about scooping his sleeping son into his arms and whisking him away from whatever horrors lied within the unknown Institute. All dashed away as quickly as they came, his mind was scattered.

Deacon bit the inside of his cheek, stopping himself from negatively commenting on the alcohol. There were no two ways about it: Quinn was a closeted alcoholic. Deacon had seen him drink from the moment he emerged from the Vault all the way to having a beer or two before bed every night. Nobody, strange enough, ever said anything to him about it. No Minutemen wanted to confront their General about being too friendly with a bottle and nobody else near him had the heart to offer judgment on the ghoul. Atom knows if anybody needed a drink now and then, it was him.

The shamed man offered up softly, watching Quinn take another two-second long drink, “Yeah, bud. That should help some. Drink up.”

Seeing no need in sticking around inside the Red Rocket to watch his traveling companion get drunk at eleven in the afternoon, Deacon rose from his place across from Quinn and clicked his tongue once while scanning the horizon outside once more. Nothing out there, still. The area surrounding The Slog was usually pretty clean, no raiders wanting to tango with a group of ghouls that threatened to turn feral on them. It made a safe place to maybe even wait out the day, depending on how intoxicated Quinn was going to get. Deacon guessed it was blackout, as per the usual.

Maybe he shouldn’t. Salt in the wound and all that, but he had come this far, right? Deacon made the decision to lean down to the tabletop, taking the ink pen into his left hand and scribbling a quick message onto the water damped paper before standing back upright and making his way to the right side door of the Red Rocket. “I’m going to poke around, see if anything is around here. Don’t go far, okay? Maybe try to nap or something. I’m, uh . . . I’ll be back in a little bit to see how you’re holding up.”

He knew he should’ve apologized. He didn’t see what difference it would make, though. The damage was done. He added on, softer than his previous words, “Hang in there, friend.”

Deacon left the Red Rocket without any acknowledgment from Quinn. He wondered to himself if the ghoul would ask to part ways or maybe he would get so drunk he wouldn’t even remember what happened prior? Maybe that was for the best. What he did was shitty, demented in a way. Playing with someone’s trauma wasn’t a smart move. He knew better but had been too caught up in seeing Quinn’s reaction to a lie that he hadn’t thought it through. He wanted to see if Quinn was as trusting as it seems and he definitely was. 

Well, maybe not so much after this.

Quinn sat in the empty truck stop, pressing his right half against the wall for support while he drank the hard liquor. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking, he chanted to himself mentally. He couldn’t take thinking about his son scared, all alone in the Institute wondering if his dad was ever going to save him. He couldn’t think about Shaun crying himself to sleep with each day losing out hope that he would ever be rescued. He couldn’t think about Shaun being killed and replaced by a-

Quinn yelled suddenly, throwing the half-empty bottle of moonshine against the cement wall and crashing it to a thousand glass shards with his mind screeching the thoughts to a halt.  
Stop. Thinking. Breathing raggedly at his own emotions flaring up hot, the somewhat drunk ghoul growled at himself for being so stupid, so gullible. How could he allow himself to be hurt like that? Fall victim to something so pointless? He was dumb, he concluded.

Shaking his head at himself, scolding mentally, Quinn let out a sigh to try and gain control of his posture. He had more alcohol in his bag and he was safe with Deacon on guard duty. He could drink himself to sleep or maybe just until he started to feel numb and out of it. Quinn reached down to enter his satchel once more, but his eyes caught the paper he had handed Deacon a few minutes ago, writing smudged from the water it rested in. 

Pulling his hand free from the satchel without grabbing a glass bottle, Quinn cursed his curiosity at the words that had been printed on the paper. Did he even care to see what Deacon had to say after misleading him? What could he possibly have to say?

His hands picked up the soggy notebook paper and turn it his way so he could properly read the words. Glancing over the message, Quinn observed the two sentences that had been engulfed in the drinking water. He sat the paper face down and steadied his breathing to normal. Maybe it did help a little. Tiny amount. Microscopic. Hardly anything.

Quinn stood from his seat and slung his leather satchel around his shoulder before exiting the Red Rocket out the completely opposite door that Deacon had left. He was stumbling just slightly, tripping over his feet now and then. He knew that Deacon would find him within an hour or two as he blindly wandered in no direction in particular. Deacon was a great tracker and may already be shadowing him like the spy he was. Quinn didn’t care. 

Quinn trudged up a small hill as he headed in what he guessed was close to The Slog. Maybe he would just crash there for the day? Maybe he would walk until he could walk no more and collapse in the road. Quinn didn’t pay any attention to the destination, too focused on the paper he had held moments ago.

“You can’t trust everybody. I’m sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Usually, I do Quinn x Deacon, but this is pre-relationship where Quinn still wants to kill Deacon.


End file.
